CHAPTER 2

Axel's POV.

My alarm went off at five in the morning, but I had already been staring at the white ceiling of my bedroom for two hours.

The condo was completely silent. No maids knocking on doors, no business calls echoing from my father’s home office, and no passive-aggressive comments from my mother about my posture or my life choices. Just me.

I didn't want to transfer here. But I didn't want the life my father had planned for me either. If he had his way, I'd be at a private academy across the country, wearing a tailored blazer and learning to take over his business.

Basketball was the only thing I'd ever fought him on. So I chose this place instead. My father still gave me an allowance, just enough to get by, but he'd cut it down enough to make sure I knew who was in control.

He didn't understand. The silence was the only part of my life I actually liked.

It was the noise outside that terrified me.

By the time I reached the campus parking lot at seven-forty, my stomach was already in knots. Groups of students were gathered near the walkways, laughing, shouting across rows of cars, dropping bags on the pavement. Every time someone laughed too loud, my shoulders jolted toward my ears.

I shoved my hands deep into the front pocket of my hoodie. My fingers were already cold, trembling against the fabric.

Just walk straight, I told myself. Look at the concrete. Don't look at their faces. If you don't look at them, they won't talk to you.

"Yo, is that the guy from the transfer portal?" someone called out from near a parked jeep.

"Look at the height on him," another voice said. "He has to be playing ball."

I kept my head down and picked up my pace, my heart slamming against my ribs. I hated this, the way people looked at me like I was a specimen in a glass box, waiting for me to do something impressive or make a fool of myself.

Coach Davis was waiting for me outside the administrative office. 

"Mercer," He said, offering a curt nod. "Right on time. Good. Follow me to the gym. We’ll get your registration locked in and hand you off to the team captain."

"Okay." 

My voice came out low and almost inaudible. Coach Davis didn't seem to mind. He turned and started walking briskly down the hallway, rattling off things I could barely focus on; academic requirements, mandatory weight room hours, physical therapy clearance.

I nodded every few seconds just to pretend I was functioning, but my brain was locked in survival mode.

Just get through the day, I repeated in my head like a chant. Get through practice, go home, close the door.

Coach Davis pushed open the doors leading toward the court.

Someone was laughing, someone else was bouncing a ball against a row of metal lockers with loud thuds.

And then, I saw him.

The way he carried himself with confidence, his tousled brown hair, and his pair of sharp, expressive hazel eyes that practically burned with energy—he was perfect.

Beside him stood a petite girl, chewing gum and watching him with amused affection.

My foot caught slightly on the edge of the floor mat.

I had to force myself not to stumble. A sudden shockwave ripped through my chest, knocking all the air straight out of my lungs.

It wasn't just that he was good-looking. It was the fact that he looked so entirely alive. He was loud, radiant, and completely comfortable in his own skin. Everything I had spent my entire miserable life failing to be. Looking at him felt like staring directly into high-beam headlights on a dark highway.

"Thorne! Get over here!" Coach Davis barked, waving his clipboard.

The brown-haired guy turned his head, his eyes landed straight on me.

For a second, I thought I was going to pass out right there.

My hands, buried deep inside my hoodie pocket, began to shake so violently.

Look away, my brain screamed. Look away, you idiot.

I couldn't. I forced my face to stay completely blank, clamping my jaw tight so my teeth wouldn't chatter from the sheer adrenaline coursing through my blood.

He walked toward us. Every step he took was effortless, his shoulders squared, an easy, charming smile spreading across his face. 

"Ethan, this is Axel Mercer," Coach Davis said, his voice grating against my ears. "Transfer student. Just finalized his paperwork this morning. Axel, this is Ethan Thorne. He’s our varsity team captain. Ethan, show him around the facility, get him settled in the locker room, and walk him through our standard drills."

"Sure thing, Coach," Ethan said. 

His voice was clear, and full of authority.

He squared his shoulders, looking up into my face, and thrust his right hand forward between us.

"Welcome to the team, Mercer," he said, looking right into my eyes. "I'm Ethan. If you have questions about the playbook, conditioning, or how we run things around here, you come to me. We work hard, we don't tolerate slackers, and we win. Glad to have you."

He was waiting. His hand was right there waiting for mine.

Take his hand, I screamed at myself. Say thank you. Introduce yourself. Say your name. Move your mouth!

Nothing happened.

My vocal cords had completely paralyzed. I could feel the blood draining from my face and rushing into my ears. If I pulled my right hand out of my hoodie pocket right now, he would see it. He would see my fingers trembling like an addict going through withdrawal. He would know I was terrified. He would see that beneath my height and my broad shoulders, I was completely pathetic.

The few seconds of silence between us felt like a glass pane cracking under pressure. Ethan’s confident smile began to stiffen at the edges. Behind him, the girl stopped chewing her gum, her eyes darting between us. Across the hall, another player was smirking.

Run.

My brain didn't give me another option. Fight or flight, and I had never won a fight in my life.

I swallowed once, trying to force moisture back into my dry mouth, but not a single sound came out. Without looking at his face again, I lowered my eyes, shifted the strap of my duffel bag higher onto my shoulder, and stepped cleanly around his outstretched arm.

I didn't touch him. I didn't say a word. I just walked past him, my legs moving on pure autopilot, heading straight for the swinging doors of the locker room.

"Shut the fuck up, Mike!" Ethan’s voice exploded behind me, loud and violent, followed by the sound of someone laughing obnoxiously.

I pushed through the locker room doors, letting them swing shut behind me, cutting off the noise.

The second the doors clicked, I stumbled toward the farthest bench in the corner, my knees threatening to buckle. I sat down on the wooden bench, dropping my bag onto the floor, and buried my face in my hands.

My breathing was shallow and ragged.

You ruined it, I thought, my fingernails digging into my scalp. First five minutes on campus, and you made him hate you. You couldn't even say 'hello.' You couldn't even shake his hand.

He had looked at me with so much energy, so much pride. And I had treated him like he was invisible. I knew how it looked. I knew how it always looked. People thought I was arrogant. They thought I was an elitist snob who thought he was too good to breathe the same air as everyone else. But the truth was so much worse. I was just a coward who couldn't handle someone looking at him.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wireless earbuds, and shoved them into my ears. I didn't turn on any music. I just needed something to block out the world, a visible sign telling everyone in the room to leave me alone.

A few minutes later, the locker room doors banged open.

A group of players poured in, their voices bouncing off the metal lockers. I kept my head down, staring intently at the laces of my black high-tops, pretending to adjust my shoe.

"Hey," a voice sneered from above me.

I didn't look up, hoping he would walk away.

A sneaker kicked the edge of my wooden bench, hard.

"I'm talking to you, transfer."

I slowly lifted my chin. Standing in front of me was a tall guy with a buzz cut and a sneering, crooked grin. He was wearing an unzipped warm-up jacket, leaning over me with his hands on his hips. Two other guys stood behind him, crossing their arms and watching with amused grins.

"You got a name, or did you leave your vocal cords at your old school?" the guy asked, leaning down. "I'm Mike. Starting forward. What position do you play?"

I looked at Mike's face. His eyes were small, full of cheap malice. My chest tightened again, that familiar ice creeping up my throat, choking off my voice. I wanted to tell him to back the hell away from me. I wanted to stand up, use my extra height, and shove him out of my space.

Instead, my body stayed completely frozen on the bench. I just stared at him, my expression entirely dead.

Mike’s grin twitched, a flash of irritation breaking through his smugness. He didn't like being ignored.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought," Mike hissed, dropping his voice as he stepped even closer, his eyes narrowing. "You think you're tough because you blew off Thorne out there? Let me give you some free advice, new guy. Don't listen to a word that arrogant fraud says. Ethan thinks he owns this gym just because Coach gave him an armband and a whistle. He’s broke, he’s desperate for a scholarship, and he’ll run you into the ground to protect his own minutes. If you want to survive on this team, you align with me. You hear me?"

I looked at Mike's face, then slowly shifted my gaze down to his sneakers, and then back up to the lockers behind him.

I didn't say a single thing. 

Not because I agreed with him, everything inside me recoiled at the way he talked about Ethan. But because I literally did not know how to respond to this kind of confrontation without stuttering or hyperventilating. I had spent my entire life in private rooms, I had never dealt with a locker-room bully in my life.

Mike waited, and when he realized I wasn't going to answer him, his jaw clenched in pure disgust.

"Fucking mute," Mike spat on the floor near my shoes. "We'll see how quiet you are when I put you on your ass during full-court drills."

He turned around and shoved past his two friends, heading toward his locker while muttering insults under his breath.

I slowly let out the breath I had been holding, my ribs aching from the tension. My hands were clammy again.

Across the locker room, the doors flew open again, and Ethan walked in.

He didn't just walk, he stormed. His duffel bag hit the bench across from another player with a violent slam. He ripped off his hoodie in one angry motion, pulling his practice jersey over his head. His skin was flushed red, and his jaw was set like concrete.

He didn't look in my direction, but the sheer fury radiating off him was practically scorching the walls.

He's furious with me, I thought, a bitter taste rising in my mouth. Of course he is. I humiliated him in front of his team.

Before I could sink any further into my own head, a piercing blast of a whistle shattered the room.

Coach Davis stepped through the doorway, clapping his hands together. "Listen up! Round up, let's go! On the center bench!"

The players immediately stopped changing, moving toward the center of the room. I stood up slowly, grabbing the hem of my jersey, and deliberately took three steps backward. I positioned myself at the absolute rear of the crowd, using the taller players in front of me as a human shield. If I stood behind them, nobody would look at me. Nobody would ask me questions.

"Alright," Coach Davis began, tapping his clipboard with a black pen. "We've got scouting showcases coming up fast this semester, and district playoffs are right around the corner. I’m not tolerating any half-assed effort. We need our absolute best lineup on the floor from day one."

Ethan stepped forward, nodding with fierce, unquestioned authority. The way he stood made my stomach do that strange, breathless flip all over again.

"Coach," Ethan said, his voice ringing with pure confidence. "Julian and I already mapped out the backcourt rotation. We’re ready to run the starting offensive sets as soon as we hit the floor."

Coach looked up from his papers, eyes completely cold.

"Change of plans, Thorne."

Ethan froze. "What do you mean, change of plans?"

Coach turned his head, his gaze cutting straight through the players in front of me and pointed his pen directly at me.

"Axel's game tape from his previous district cleared this morning," Coach announced, his voice echoing off the walls like a gunshot. "He’s starting at shooting guard. Effective immediately. Julian, you’re running second unit."

The words hit the room like a physical explosion.

Every single breath in the room stopped.

Julian’s face went completely white. His jaw dropped, his hands hanging limp at his sides as if someone had just punched him in the throat. Mike let out a low, venomous whistle from the bench, crossing his arms with a toxic smirk.

And then, every head in the room turned.

The players parted like a wave, leaving me standing completely exposed at the back of the locker room.

Dozens of eyes locked onto me in shock, confusion, and burning resentment.

My heart didn't just spike; it slammed into my ribs so hard that I felt dizzy. A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. I couldn't breathe. Starting guard? No. 

No, that’s not right. I didn't ask for this. I didn't send any tapes.

Then, Ethan turned around.

His eyes locked onto mine. The easy confidence, the captain’s warmth, the radiant energy—it was all gone. His face was pale, his lips pulled back into a thin, trembling line of raw, unfiltered hatred. He looked at me as if I were a thief who had just broken into his home and burned everything he loved to the ground.

He stared at me, his chest heaving, his fists shaking at his sides.

I stood there, pinned under his gaze, completely unable to move, or speak, or defend myself. 

The panic in my throat tightened like a noose.